


Say it without words

by jomipay



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Bicon Tim Stoker, Canon Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Angst, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Friends With Benefits, Gray Asexuality, Gray ace jon, JonTim - Freeform, M/M, it's about the ANGst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:40:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25788988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jomipay/pseuds/jomipay
Summary: Takes the premise that Jon and Tim had a kind of friends with benefits relationship going on in their research days and runs with it all the way from Tim's start at the institute to after the Unknowing."Kiss on New Year’s?” He asks, and Jon thinks he has to be joking. Jon wrinkles his face into an expression that tells him so.Tim winks, winks at him. “What? It’s good luck. Couldn’t you use some good luck?”The minute countdown has started. Jon’s thinking of reasons to say no, but his brain isn’t coming up with anything good. Possibly it’s because he doesn’t want to say no. Because he likes this closeness, the arm slung heavy over his shoulders, the body pressed against his. He likes kissing, too, and he hasn’t gotten to do it in a while. Tim has already turned his attention back to a screen that is now counting down the seconds from ten.“Fine, alright.” Jon says.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 27
Kudos: 97





	Say it without words

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. I couldn't get the premise out of my brain and this was the result. Please wallow in despair with me. Thank you to [Silvercolour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvercolour/pseuds/silvercolour) and [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock) for the ace sensitivity reads!

Tim comes to Jon broken, just as the cold of winter starts to really take hold. Jon does not consider himself the best reader of people, but even he can tell there is something deeply wounded in him, barely concealed beneath the surface. His smile is a cracked thing, well-practiced, with lines at the corners of his upturned lips, evidence of the repetition of the gesture—it probably used to reach his eyes. He takes the desk across from John. He is a good worker, diligent and quiet. He keeps mostly to himself. Jon understands this well. Jon is friendly with most of the research staff, at least professionally, and he has few close friends. He is at a stage in his life where he is transitioning, trying to decide what will satisfy him. Trying to determine what will make him feel as though he is actively participating in his life instead of a passenger being swept through, struggling to make a picture out of the blur of colors rushing by. He has found the beginning of a sense of purpose in his work at the Institute. He thinks he may be able to settle here.

Jon recognizes that Tim is a very aesthetically pleasing man, and so it is no surprise that there is never a shortage of people coming by his desk to chat idly or to try to ensnare him in some afterwork get together or another. Jon goes to these sometimes. He’s good to go out for a few drinks. He’s been wrangled to the occasional lunch outing. He has always had a bit of a hard time connecting to other people. The comfort of intimacy with others was not ingrained in him the way it is in in others, with those raised in robust and loving homes. He had it figured it out in university for a time. Georgie was a bright soul, and that she might look upon him with love in her eyes had tethered him, until he pulled too hard, and the tether had snapped. He has a rough exterior he cannot seem to sand down, no matter how hard he tries. He supposes it is due to some kind of protective instinct. He has never been good with too much pain, never been good with too much fear, despite his current occupation. It takes so much to let someone in, and even more to have them wrenched away from you. He has never had an easy time of connection, but now, as he settles and feels more and more connected to himself, he thinks he would like to try a little harder.

Tim is friendly with his coworkers. He is good at making small talk and he comes out with the rest of the staff frequently, but Jon notices something in his manner that betrays him. His smile never spreads into the crinkles around his eyes. He speaks politely, curtly, in an awkward way which demonstrates not that he is a poor socializer, but that perhaps he is not used to socializing in this particular way. Perhaps he is the kind of person to gesticulate wildly with their hands, to throw back his head and laugh at his own jokes, the way the lines on his face would suggest. Jon cannot be sure, but he would like to find out.

***

“Would you like to go out for lunch?”

Tim slowly tears his attention away from the book he’s reading and looks up to see Jon peering over the divider that separates their desks. 

“What?” He says, because he can’t think of anything else to say.

Jon’s dark eyes sharpen. “I said, would you like to go out for lunch?”

Tim has been at the archives a few months now. He has certainly learned more than maybe he had cared to about the supernatural, but he still hasn’t learned what he wants to, what he _needs_ to. Jon’s been around a while. All the other researchers go to him when they’re stuck, when they’ve hit dead ends and they aren’t sure where to go next. Jon seems to have a good memory, and from what Tim has seen, he is a voracious reader, making his way through texts quickly and efficiently for projects. Tim is not here to make friends, he is here with a purpose, a single-minded goal, but being closer to Jon might not be a bad idea.

“Sure. Yeah, actually that’d be great.” Tim replies. He thinks to his own bagged lunch of chicken that is too dry and rice that is a couple days too old.

Jon nods curtly. Tim hears rustling and realizes that John is getting his coat and that he had meant _right now._ Tim marks his place in the book, gets up, and lets himself be dragged to lunch. He lets himself be dragged to lunch the next week, too, and twice the week after that. Talking to Jon isn’t so bad. He is blunt, but genuine, with a very dry sense of humor and a knack for sarcasm that Tim appreciates. Tim asks him about the circus. He scrunches his nose and says he doesn’t know much, but he helps Tim find a few books.

They go to lunch weekly. Tim learns that Jon does not like coffee, even though it always looks like he could use some. Jon likes tea, but he likes the sweet mango lassis from the little Indian place down the street even more. Jon hasn’t seen a ton of movies, not nearly as many as Tim, but he does like documentaries. Tim asks if he’s seen the latest superhero flick, waits for Jon to shake his head ‘no’ and then tells him about it anyways. He gives a purposefully bad summary, making the whole thing sound more ridiculous than it really is. Jon always indulges him, rolling his eyes and not quite keeping the fondness out of them.

He is not here to make friends, he reminds himself one afternoon, walking back from lunch. There had been a place a bit farther away from the Institute Tim had wanted to try, and Jon had been up for the walk. They hadn’t checked the weather before they left and as a consequence, they are now both slightly damp, dodging puddles on the uneven sidewalks. A sportscar, garishly red under the overcast sky, speeds by, displacing an alarming amount of water on its way to the drains onto Tim and Jon instead.

They pause, in shock from the onslaught of cold water seeping into their clothes and down to their skin. Jon’s mouth is hanging open. There is water splashed across his glasses and some of his hair is plastered to his face. Jon takes his glasses off and pulls the hem of his soaked shirt up to wipe them off before realizing his mistake. Tim laughs at him. He can’t help it; he just looks so miserable and ridiculous. Tim is sure he looks just as ridiculous.

“You know, this was fortunate, really.” Tim twists the bottom of his shirt up in his hands, wringing it out as Jon stares at him with a look of incredulity on his face. “Didn’t take a shower today. Problem solved.” Tim feels himself smile, ear to ear before he laughs at his own bad joke.

Jon’s scowl breaks around his own laugh as he tries to set his hair to rights. They make their way back to the Institute. They slosh through the atrium and back to their desks, leaving a trail of water behind. Sasha happens to be returning from the break room and almost drops her cup of tea when she catches sight of them. She looks at them and gasps, covering her mouth before giggling.

“You look like a couple of drowned rats!”

Jon scowls at her, but there is no real heart behind it. Tim can hear Jon flop into his chair on the other side of the divider in a thick rustling of damp fabric.

“I feel like a drowned rat.” Jon mumbles, just loud enough that Tim can hear, and he smiles again, ear to ear. His cheeks hurt for all the smiling and laughing he’s done in the last half hour. It feels good. Maybe having a friend wouldn’t be the worst thing.

***

It is New Year’s Eve, and Jon finds himself shoved up against a wooden bar top with far too many people surrounding him. He should have gone home ages ago, at least two bars ago. The bartender finally gets to him.

“Two pints of the lager, and…” He turns behind him, forgetting what it was Sasha wanted.

“Vodka cranberry!” She shouts over his shoulder, pushing a crumbled five pound note into his hand and smiling in thanks.

He carries their drinks over to a slightly less crowded section of the bar, where a number of Institute employees are standing around some tables. He slides in place next to Tim. Tim talks enough for the both of them and he takes solace knowing that he won’t have to go through the mortifying process of making small talk with people he really doesn’t know very well outside of work.

Tim takes his pint and thanks him, nudges him with an elbow. “Thought you said you weren’t gonna make it to midnight?”

“Well I wasn’t planning on it.” Jon grumbles, gulping from his own beer.

“You’ve almost made it now, only a few minutes left, cheer up.” Tim nudges him again and he doesn’t hate it as much as he should. His head is hazy with alcohol. He hadn’t meant to drink very much, but he is definitely tipsy, will be solidly tipsy once he finishes this beer. He watches people talk, watches the way Sasha laughs and Tim grins as he takes delight in the way a bad pun has just made someone wince. It’s not so much of a mystery how he ended up out so late, after all.

There is an uptick in noise as the clock draws nearer to midnight. Tim leans over, slings an arm casually over his shoulders. Jon’s instinct is to swat him away, but he finds he doesn’t actually want to. Tim finishes the last of his beer. Everyone’s eyes are locked on the television screens, waiting for the fireworks over the Thames to start.

Tim leans down and speaks, close to his ear.

"Kiss on New Year’s?” He asks, and Jon thinks he has to be joking. Jon wrinkles his face into an expression that tells him so.

Tim winks, _winks_ at him. “What? It’s good luck. Couldn’t you use some good luck?”

The minute countdown has started. Jon’s thinking of reasons to say no, but his brain isn’t coming up with anything good. Possibly it’s because he doesn’t want to say no. Because he likes this closeness, the arm slung heavy over his shoulders, the body pressed against his. He likes kissing, too, and he hasn’t gotten to do it in a while. Tim has already turned his attention back to a screen that is now counting down the seconds from ten.

“Fine, alright.” Jon says.

Tim whips his head around.

“Really?” Surprise and mirth play in Tim’s voice. His voice is lighter now. So light now that he smiles with his eyes again. Jon likes the sound of it.

“I can’t see why not.” Jon replies, mouth breaking into a grin at the look of surprise on Tim’s face. He fists a hand in the fabric of Tim’s jumper, pulls him down to press their lips together and feels the smile pressed against his own.

It takes a long time to get home that night. The streets are packed with people spilling out of bars and the logistical nightmare of trying to take a cab or find his way on the late-night tube is making Jon’s head swim.

“This is why I wanted to go home early.” Jon despairs, swaying into Tim’s side.

Tim steadies him. “Come crash at mine. The couch is actually pretty comfortable.”

Tim says it easily, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Jon grumbles something that might be an assent.

“Besides, you’re short enough to really stretch out on it.”

Jon grumbles, affronted, and Tim snickers.

The couch is comfortable, and Jon does have enough room to stretch his legs all the way out under the big fluffy blanket he’s been given, and he sleeps well.

***

It has been nearly a year since Tim started at the Institute and he is more settled. The war between anger and despair in his heart came to an armistice a while ago, leaving him with a numbness that is beginning to wear off. It feels like waking up. It has been two weeks since New Year’s Eve and the night Jon spent on his couch. He hadn’t expected Jon to say yes when he’d asked for a kiss. He remembers being suddenly nervous, his heart pounding and something like _excitement_ slipping through his veins like molten gold. He remembers navigating the crowded streets, being jostled by the crowds, knocking into Jon and the warmth of his body close to his side. It had been nice waking up with someone else in his flat. He also remembers wanking later, recalling exactly how Jon’s lips had felt against his, imagining how they might feel other places. He wants it, he wants Jon.

Things between them have been normal. They go out to lunch still and take breaks for tea. Tim likes to rile Jon up and watch him scowl before hiding his smile in a mug. He wants to touch, wants to feel, wants to have someone close to him. He has never gone so long without anyone before. He is built for physical affection, he loves it, craves it. Occasionally he has had boyfriends, girlfriends and he fills the gaps in between with strings of casual hookups. He has never gone so long without sex before, not since he was a teenager, but grief can take so many things from you. Sex had been the furthest thing from his mind for so long, but now he can’t ignore the warmth in his abdomen. He is not used to this isolated existence, but he is not ready to open himself to the world at large just yet, but he thinks that right now he could do it for Jon. Just Jon.

“I wouldn’t mind doing it again.” He blurts out over lunch a few days later.

Jon has a glass of water halfway to his mouth. He sets it down, carefully, in a way that tells Tim he knows exactly what they are talking about, before Jon asks, “Doing what?”

Tim’s pulse flares to life. It is still strange to be nervous, strange to care about an outcome, about what happens to him outside of figuring out what happened to Danny.

“The uhm, the drinking, and the kissing, and the uhm,” Tim searches for the right word, “socializing?” Is the word he settles on. He thinks maybe he’s been spending too much time with Jon after all.

Jon is silent for a moment. Tim’s nerves have a field day. Does Jon not want this? The exhilaration of nerves, the novelty of feeling something, still has not worn off.

“I also would not mind doing it again.” Jon finally says.

Something dangerously close to joy bounces around in Tim’s heart, making itself known in its incessant pounding.

“But if you’re looking for some kind of a, ah, _romantic,_ endeavor, I’m not sure—”

“Doesn’t need to be romantic.” Tim is quick to promise him. He definitely can’t do romance right now, definitely doesn’t want to. “Was thinking more along the lines of ‘friends with benefits?’”

“Oh, right.” Jon’s cheeks flush. “Well, if that’s something that you’re interested in, then there’s something I should tell you, just to make sure our expectations are, uh, aligned.”

Jon takes a breath.

“I generally don’t have sex,” Jon begins. “Some partners not at all, some only if they ask, and others,” He pauses, “sometimes more often.”

“Oh, that’s fine, sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—” Tim rushes to backtrack, not wanting to have made Jon uncomfortable.

“No, no that’s okay.” Jon smooths a stray stand of hair back behind an ear. “I generally don’t, but I do, enjoy it sometimes, and I don’t mind it most times.“ Jon’s face is actively reddening, but he presses on, “and I’m finding myself interested in perhaps having someone to do that with, and in maybe trying some things. If that would be alright with you.” Jon is making very direct eye contact with the table as he finishes.

Tim takes this all in.

“Yeah, always up for trying things, me.”

“I can’t make any promises about frequency,” Jon trails off, looking uncertain.

“Not a problem,” Tim rushes to assure him.

“Well then, uhm good.”

“Good.” Tim repeats.

***

Jon checks the time and realizes he needs to leave soon if he wants to make it to Tim’s at a reasonable hour. Tim has invited Jon over to watch a documentary, something about a Scotch distillery that Jon has not seen before. He is shaking when he arrives, but only slightly. Tim had made sure Jon knew there was absolutely no pressure on him to do anything, but still, intimacy, of any sort, can be terrifying. They make it about halfway through before Tim slings an arm over the back of the couch, an invitation for Jon to scoot closer. He takes it and tucks himself under its comfortable weight. Around five minutes later he realizes he isn’t really paying attention to the film, so he steels himself and places a testing hand over one of Tim’s collarbones, at the junction of neck and shoulder. He can feel the thin fabric of the shirt, soft beneath half his fingers, and the heat of bare skin under the other half. Jon likes kissing, and he would very much like to kiss Tim right now. Tim turns his head, Jon takes a deep breath through his nose, and then their mouths are pressed together. Tim pulls Jon into his lap. Jon feels his arousal beneath him and rubs a hand over it, making Tim groan. Jon undoes the zip and pulls Tim’s stiff cock free.

“You don’t have to,” Tim tells him.

“But would you like me to?”

Tim nods, and Jon wraps a hand around him. After Tim comes, he offers to reciprocate.

Jon considers this. “Not tonight.” He decides.

Jon leaves some time later, with a few darkening marks on his neck that he had given Tim permission to leave. His hair will hide them. He holds his hair away from his neck in the mirror the next day to examine them, smiling softly at his reflection. It is a couple weeks later that Jon asks if Tim would maybe like to come over later, with no other pretense. They spend a large portion of their time on Jon’s couch, with Jon straddling Tim’s lap, kissing and nipping at his neck. He has always taken pleasure in the noises his partners make, and Tim is making some wonderful ones. Jon can feel some of the vibrations against his mouth, where it is firmly latched to the front of Tim’s throat. He is hard in his trousers and there is a firmness against his thigh where Tim is as well. Tim pulls away to catch his breath.

“Would you like to have sex?” Tim asks, still sounding out of breath. He moves a hand up Jon’s thigh, just shy of touching the bulge in his trousers.

“I would be okay with that.” Jon replies. Tim is taller than him and straddling his lap like this they are of a height.

Tim smiles, amber eyes flicking over Jon’s face. He pushes a strand of hair back behind an ear from where it has escaped his hair tie.

“Just okay? We don’t have to, we can do something else.”

Jon takes in the flush in Tim’s cheeks, the dilation of his pupils. How can he put this in a way Tim will understand?

“Well, I’d just as soon watch a film with you, or play scrabble.” Jon sighs wistfully. He really does like scrabble. “But I think you would prefer to do something else. Something I am very much willing to participate in.”

“And you’re sure?” Tim asks. His features are tense. The worry lines on his forehead are crinkled. Jon thinks it’s very sweet.

“I bought condoms and lubricant yesterday expecting that we might be having some kind of sex.”

This seems to assuage some of Tim’s concern.

“What kind of sex?” Tim nuzzles into his neck. “What do you, er—like?”

“I am amenable to penetrative sex.” Jon says as he enjoys the scratch of Tim’s stubble against his neck. “Being the receiving, party.” He clarifies.

“Oh?” Tim prompts, “And you’re comfortable with that?”

“Yes.” Jon hisses as Tim bites down forcefully on his neck.

“Sorry, too hard?”

“No, no,” Jon assures, “I actually, uhm, like it when it’s a bit hard.”

He is rewarded for this revelation with a sharp nip to the side of his neck.

“Like that?”

Jon nods, and Tim gives him several sharp bites of varying intensity and duration in quick succession.

“What else?” Tim asks.

“I’ve liked it in the past when partners have held my hands down.”

Tim hums, still mouthing over his neck.

Eventually, Tim releases Jon’s neck. They discuss details. Tim wants to make sure Jon is comfortable. Jon explains it is something he’s done before, something he knows he can enjoy. When they agree on everything, Tim simply stands up with Jon cradled against him. Jon scrabbles to lock his legs around him and grumbles about being picked up like a bag of potatoes. He directs Tim to his bedroom, tells him where the condoms and lubricant he had purchased specifically for this are located.

Tim fixes him with a serious gaze. “If you’re ever not enjoying this, let me know, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Jon breathes.

Their clothes come off, dropped neatly into a pile on Jon’s floor. Jon is tense when the first finger breaches him, but he quickly relaxes, and one turns into two turns into three before Tim checks in, lines himself up and pushes in. It burns, and the sensation is not unpleasant. Jon likes a bit of pain, mild pain, like biting and scratching and the first thrusts of penetrative sex after being well prepared. He wraps his legs around Tim’s waist, moves his hips up to meet each thrust, encouraging a faster pace.

Tim bends down, kisses along his jaw mumbles into it a question. “Good?”

“Good.” Jon answers.

His hair has come out of its tie and Tim sinks a hand into it, pulling slightly. Jon gives a noise of encouragement.

“I like that.” He says, because Tim had wanted to know what he liked. Tim moans at that. His skin is slick under Jon’s hands and he is panting and making noises with his voice Jon would never have imagined.

They lie together for a while afterwards. Jon indulges his desire to cuddle before cleaning up and redressing. Tim leaves a short while later.

A few weeks pass before Jon finds himself in Tim’s bed. Jon’s mouth is wrapped around his throbbing erection, delighting in the noises Tim makes before being pulled off by a hand fisted in his hair. Jon hisses against the sting, but it is pleasurable. Tim takes both of Jon’s wrists in one hand, holding them over his head while savaging his throat. He likes seeing Tim this way, in the throws of passion. He hopes Tim doesn’t mind terribly that he can’t quite match it. He likes the marks. Tim knows he likes the marks. The next day Tim walks by his desk, handing him a file they’d been discussing earlier. He brushes his fingers against Jon’s neck, where he knows the marks are being hidden by his hair, before walking away. A week later, Tim shows him a pair of padded handcuffs. He insists on a discussion, the determination of a safe word. It ends with Tim cuffing him to his wrought iron bedframe while sucking him off, dragging his nails down Jon’s stomach, leaving angry red marks in his wake. Jon finds that to be pleasurable too.

Tim checks in constantly. He always wants to make sure Jon is enjoying himself.

Jon smirks at him after one such occasion. “Like you could make me do anything I didn’t want to.”

“But you are enjoying yourself?”

“I am.” Jon confirms. He thinks for a moment and then adds. “It isn’t the way other people feel about sex, but it’s…it’s exciting. I like it. I like being held down and bitten and scratched. It feels good. I enjoy doing it.”

Tim smiles, pleased.

“I also like the marks.” Jon admits.

Tim reaches over, lifts Jon’s hair away from his neck and tuts. “Well, looks like the last of them are fading, so…”

Tim’s smile darkens, a glint appearing in his eyes. “Come to mine tonight?”

They use the handcuffs again. Tim is thrusting into him while scratching down Jon’s sides, the way they’ve learned Jon likes. Jon arches his back into it, like a cat arching it’s back into scratches. He watches sweat trickle down the side of Tim’s face. Tim doesn’t ever look troubled, or worried like this. He just looks like Tim. Tim fists a hand in his hair and pulls. Jon grits his teeth.

“Beautiful.” Tim murmurs.

Jon ponders whether this is true. He knows he looks older than he is, and his unruly black hair is already shot through with streaks of grey. He has dark circles under his eyes that only ever get worse. He tries to reconcile this with the idea of being beautiful. He can’t quite do it. He stays over that night. He likes sharing a bed more than he probably should. He takes a shower there in the morning. Tim lets him borrow a shirt and if anyone notices that they both smell like Tim’s coconut scented shampoo the next day, they don’t let on.

***

It is easier for Tim to talk to people now. He likes a lot of the people he works with, now that he has the capacity to share himself again. It feels nice to have someone, an ally, a friend in Jon. Someone who’s touch lights his skin on fire. Jon cannot keep up with Tim’s sex drive, but Tim doesn’t mind. He has plenty to keep himself busy with when Jon does not want or is not willing to have sex. He has the way Jon’s hands feel wrapped around him, within him, memorized and thinks of it as he strokes himself to climax in the shower or laying in his bed. He has missed being touched. It is something he craves. Contact and touch have always grounded him and he had been floating, lost without it. It is only now he realizes how not like himself he had been when he first started. He wants to find out what happened to Danny, but the hard edge of anger, a knife jabbed against his back, pushing him forward, is gone.

It is dark out, has been for a few hours, but Tim has lost track of time. He has found another book that might have information on the circus and has spent the better part of the evening sat at his desk reading it. He rubs his eyes. Everyone else except for Jon has already gone home.

“Jon,” Tim calls over the divider.

Jon grunts back at him.

“I think you’re gonna miss your train.”

There is the sound of movement and then Jon swearing. “Damn it. I already have.”

It takes some convincing, but Tim gets him onto the back of his motorbike. Jon clutches at him, tensing every time they accelerate or change lanes. Tim doesn’t ask where Jon wants to be dropped off, he just drives them to his flat, and if Jon had wanted to go home, he doesn’t say anything. It doesn’t take much convincing to get Jon to forgo sleeping on the couch. His bed is plenty big enough for both of them, but Jon ends up curled into his side regardless. He runs his fingers through Jon’s loose hair, trying not to get used to it, trying not to let it light up his heart the way Jon lights up his skin.

They try something very new a few weeks later. It had taken some convincing on Tim’s part, but Jon had agreed to give it ago. Tim tries to wait patiently. Jon is supposed to tell him when he’s willing. A few days go by and Tim is starting to think Jon has changed his mind, which is fine of course, but he can’t ignore the pang of disappointment at the prospect. Finally, the day comes. They wait until everyone is gone, until it is just Tim and Jon sitting at their desks. Tim waits, tapping his pen against his desk impatiently.

Jon huffs, and then stands. “Yes, alright, I hear you.”

Tim grins, waits approximately one minute and then follows Jon to the bathroom, turning the lock once he’s inside.

He grabs Jon’s wrists, crowds him against the wall and bites at his exposed throat. Jon tilts his head up, granting him unobstructed access.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” Jon grunts.

Tim chuckles against his jaw, heart racing and already hard in his trousers. “It’s because you like me.”

Jon huffs at that. Tim has wanted to do this in the middle of the day, during a lunch break or some other time when there was real danger of being caught. Jon managed to talk him down from that and this is still scratching that itch. He’ll think about this every time he uses this bathroom, every time he washes his hands and looks in the mirror, he’ll remember what they did against the wall reflected just over his shoulder. Tim undoes the fastenings on both of their trousers, pushes them down and then picks Jon up so his legs wrap around his waist. He holds Jon in place against the wall with his hips. He reaches into Jon’s pocket and extracts the packets of lube, ripping one open with his teeth and spreading it on his fingers.

“You do like me.” Time grins down at him wickedly. “It’s because I’m so sexy.”

A laugh punches out of John. Tim presses a finger into him, and the laugh turns into a groan.

“I suppose I’ll just have to take your word for it.” Jon says when he has recovered, and smirks up at him. Tim can’t help the peal of laughter that escapes him.

“Cheeky, bastard.” He adds a second finger and crooks them. Jon moans and a rush of satisfaction shoots up his spine. Jon’s voice during sex is not a rarity. He’s actual very talkative during, which Tim thinks is maybe because he doesn’t loose himself in the act the way that Tim does—Tim can’t string together three consecutive words when he’s really in the throes of it. Genuine noises of pleasure from Jon though, are harder to come by, and he covets each and every one like a precious gem.

“I mean, I am having sex with you. So I suppose that might suit your definition of ‘sexy’?” Jon quips.

“Could you stop being a prick for like, 5 minutes? Or at least until we’re done here?” Tim stares pointedly at where his fingers are thrusting.

Jon frowns and Tim slows his motions, afraid maybe he has overstepped, but then Jon smiles, that cracked open, mischievous grin.

“Oh, but I thought you liked my prick.”

Tim cackles at that, curling in on himself a bit as he shakes with it. It feels so good to laugh, so good to be with someone that makes him laugh. He enjoys this. This push and pull, the highs and lows of the tide between them. It feels good to have feelings again. Where before there was anger, hatred, revenge that had given way to an uneasy numbness, to nothing. Now there is the promise of more.

***

Jon thinks the bathroom excursion was fine, though not fine enough to want to do it again. What he has found that he enjoys more than public sexual encounters in arguably risky places is a bit of light choking.

“I just want to try it,” He tells Tim the first time.

He can see that Tim is surprised, though he manages to hide it well. Tim nods and tells him to tap him firmly on the shoulder when he wants it to stop. Jon likes it. Jon likes it rather a lot. So much that it becomes a regular addition to their sexual encounters. Sometimes just the hand there is enough, just the threat of the fingers positioned around his throat closing. Other times, he wants to feel the squeeze, wants them to close around it. He likes the lightheadedness, the feeling of floating, of being just slightly out of his body. The terror that comes with trusting someone so much you would let them wrap their fingers around your throat and _squeeze_. He likes being scared, just a little bit. He works at the Institute after all.

Another thing Jon discovers he likes is having control. This is not a revelation, Jon knows he likes having control, but it is new in the way he experiences it with Tim. Tim mentions interest in being edged and overstimulated and the idea appeals to Jon at once. Apparently visibly so.

“I knew you’d like that you control freak.” Tim teases.

Jon blushes. “Was it obvious?”

“You got this evil little glint in your eye.”

Jon likes the idea of having someone fall apart in his hands. He likes the idea of denying Tim, of pushing him to the edge and denying him release, over and over until he is begging. He would like to hear Tim beg. He wants to be responsible for every agonizing second of the ordeal. He gets his chance a few weeks later.

Tim has been working on a rather demanding contract for a couple weeks, staying late several nights in a row. Jon has been assigned to do some research into spiders. It involves watching footage of some spiders behaving strangely and documenting their divergent behavior from their natural brethren. Jon hates spiders. The idea of doing it alone is daunting, so he enlists Tim’s help.

“Are you afraid of spiders?” Tim nettles him.

Jon scowls and pops the disc into Tim’s player, plopping down on the couch right next to him, where he in within Jon’s reach, and bracing himself. The footage is disturbing, to say the least. The footage is CCTV of an alley. The spiders come from seeming all directions, walking through the alley, climbing down the walls, over the camera. Jon shudders. Tim seems fine until the spiders drag something into view, a bag of some sort, filled with something that looks damp, but is hard to make out through the grainy quality of the footage. Suddenly, a rather large spider appears over the camera, webbing over it rapidly and blocking the rest of the view. Jon and Tim both jump and clutch at each other.

“Jesus!” Tim yelps.

Jon jumps up, and shuts the tape off, unsettled.

“Well, that was unpleasant.”

They decide not to do any follow up research. Jon marks down all of their behavior as ‘divergent’ and they call it a night. There are better things he could be doing tonight. He cajoles Tim into playing scrabble with him. They stay up into the early morning, neither wanting to sleep after the spiders. Jon wakes the next morning, half laying on Tim on the couch. He gets up and help himself to a shower, seeing no reason to disturb Tim. He redresses in his work clothes from the day before, not wanting to bother Tim for spare clothing. Jon already has at least one item of clothing he hasn’t returned to him yet. He would feel badly if it became a collection.

Tim is awake when he emerges and sitting on the couch with a sheepish look on his face.

“So, um about the, um, overstimulation?”

“Yes, what about it?”

“Would you like to do that now?”

“Oh.” Jon says as he thinks. It is Saturday, and there is nothing for him to do, nowhere for him to be except here. “Yes, alright.”

At this, Tim scrambles to his feet and heads for the bedroom.

Jon takes his time. He makes Tim undress slowly, one clothing item at a time, making him fold everything as he goes. Jon does not remove any of his clothing. Electing instead to simply roll up the sleeves of his day old work shirt.

“Close your eyes.”

Tim complies, and Jon runs his hands up and down his sides, over his ribs where Jon knows he is ticklish, making him squirm. He has Tim shuddering and squirming, taking deep breaths before he ever touches his cock. By the time he does finally touch it, there is precome leaking from the tip that Jon bends down to taste with the tip of his tongue, causing Tim to cry out. Jon begins stroking him, watching the rise and fall of his chest, waiting for his moans to take on that desperate edge Jon knows well, and then he stops. Tim whines, opening his eyes, and Jon smiles. He fingers Tim open slowly, only using one finger until Tim is begging for more. Jon adds a second finger and begins to stroke again, letting the pleasure climb and climb before he squeezes the base of Tim’s cock firmly, effectively ruining his building orgasm. Tim huffs in frustration, but Jon isn’t supposed to stop unless he hears the right word, and so it continues.

Jon has an idea, and he stills the motion of his hands again.

“Oh come on!” Tim cries. He sits up on his elbows to glare at Jon. “I know you’re a prick but this is just cruel.”

Jon ignores him, coming to a decision about his earlier idea. “Can I use one of your toys?”

Tim’s eyes widen.

“Fuck, yeah. Pick whatever you want. They’re in that box under the bed.” Tim’s voice is rough and he sounds wrecked. Jon has denied him at least three times.

Jon selects a simple, but not insignificantly sized dildo from the box and slathers it with lubricant before using it to torment Tim. Initially, he only sinks the toy halfway in, toying with him using shallow, unsatisfying thrusts until Tim’s back is arching off the bed in frustration. When he sinks it all the way in, Tim lets out a long, satisfied groan. Jon then speeds up his thrusting. Tim pants under him, biting at his bottom lip, making it red and slick with his own spit. Jon bends over and kisses him messily, smearing their lips together and licking into his mouth. Tim whines.

“Please, please, fuck, Jon, please.” Jon can feel the words against his mouth. He gives Tim a few strokes with his hand. Tim’s moans have increased in volume and intensity and he grinds his hips down against the toy. Jon stills the movement of both hands and Tim wails.

“Oh no, that’s much too soon. You told me you were stressed. I think we’re going to have to be at this a bit longer if you’re to get proper stress relief out of it.”

Jon pushes the palm of his hand against the base of the toy, holding it fully sheathed within him, bumping cruelly into Tim’s prostate. Tim whimpers and Jon feels the outline of a button under his palm.

“Oh, I think this one vibrates,” he remarks as he presses it and the toy buzzes to life and rips a throaty yell from Tim’s chest. Jon would not enjoy being on the receiving end of this. He doesn’t mind being penetrated, finds it to be enjoyable enough, but it loses its charm if it goes on too long. It has been at least thirty minutes now, and Tim still has yet to say the word. He looks to be in agony, body tense and flushed, writhing against the bed, but he catches a glimpse of the sweet edge of it in Tim’s face.

By the time Jon has decided Tim has had enough, he is practically sobbing. His body is flushed red and radiating heat. Desperate cries escape his mouth through gritted teeth when he isn’t swearing or pleading with Jon to let him come.

“Marsupial!” Tim grounds out, and Jon watches the anguish on his face with interest.

“This time,” Jon promises, wrapping his hand around Tim’s weeping cock.

Tim shudders, sucking in heaving breaths and then coming with shout as Jon watches the anguish contort first with pleasure and then with exhaustion. Jon brings him a cold towel, wipes the mess off him. He tries to convince him to get up and take a shower, but Tim pulls him down to lie against him instead. He is dripping with sweat and Jon grimaces.

“Just give me a second.” His breathing is still ragged and Jon is unbelievably smug.

Tim closes his eyes and gets his breathing back under control.

“Was it good?” Jon has to know, wants to hear it.

“Jesus Jon, it was fucking amazing. I don’t know if I can walk. I think I’m gonna need a lifeguard in the shower.”

Jon hides his wide smile in Tim’s damp hair. Something dangerous blooms in his chest, but he doesn’t give it a name.

“So shower then? I think I need another one now that you’ve gotten your sweat all over me.”

“Shower.” Tim agrees.

***

Friends with benefits works, but it’s a relationship that comes with an expiration date. It isn’t sustainable. They cannot exist this way forever. Tim knows it’s coming, he can feel it in the pull of his stomach at night, lying in bed and wishing Jon was there before he can think better of it. He can feel it when he strokes himself off in the shower to the memory of Jon’s hands on his skin and he to remind himself that soon that’s all they will be. Memories. When Jon takes the job as head archivist and asks him to be an assistant, it’s a natural ending. That doesn’t mean that it feels natural to adjust. Their rhythm is awkward, dyssynchronous. Tim hadn’t realized how in step they had fallen until he is jarred out of it. Working in the archives is fine, or at least it starts that way. Jon’s birthday happens near the start. Tim makes sure everyone knows, he makes sure there is cake and an opportunity to tease. It’s all fine. Tim likes Sasha, and he can still mess with Jon. He can still see Jon, all the time, every day.

Tim can see the way Martin looks at Jon. In a fit of bitterness he thinks Martin is too soft for Jon, that he could never be rough enough for Jon, rough enough to match him. He shakes himself out of it, chides himself. He knows better than that. He knows you can’t discern these things from looking, from the disposition a person elects to share with you. And aside from that, none of that really matters. Maybe he sees a little too much of himself in the way Martin’s eyes follow Jon. Jon comes out of his office briefly to hand Martin a file. Tim turns the volume on his headphones down, listens to his voice, upset with Martin for something insignificant. Jon is going to chew him up and spit him out.

He is still happier at the Institute than he has ever been, but he misses Jon. It isn’t something he can just put away, the little bits of love that had grown. He can’t stuff them into a box and chuck them up onto a high shelf, high enough he doesn’t have to look at it. He just can’t. It’s harder than he thinks it ought to be. It isn’t a break up, but it is an end. An end to a part of their relationship they might not ever experience again, that they probably won’t ever experience again. That’s the real kicker, the thing that makes his heart ache. He wouldn’t have minded if nothing had changed. He thinks he might have needed it more than Jon, especially towards the end. He is just now coming to terms with the fact that it makes him just a bit sad. He is mourning the loss—just a little—he tells himself. Actually it’s quite a lot. He thinks of wounds. Even the tiniest cuts can become infected if you don’t take care of them. So he starts taking care of it. He lets himself feel sad. He spends more time with everyone else, with Sasha. He wonders if Jon thinks about him sometimes, if Jon misses him, too. He knows Jon could take or leave the sex, even though Tim misses it in a way that makes his skin crawl and the feeling of his own hands on his skin feel woefully inadequate. After some time to adjust, he invites others into his bed. It works to scratch the itch. But he still wonders if Jon think about him in the middle of the night when he can’t sleep. Maybe he does, most likely he doesn’t. If he even sleeps at all. Jon is different now. Stressed, but that’s understandable. There is something else there, something beyond stress, lurking beneath the surface. A dread in Jon’s eyes, a new darker shade to the circles under them. Tim thinks the job is taking an unnatural toll on him.

***

Jon is not sleeping well. He has not slept well since he took the job in the archives. The statements are exhausting and he is scared out of his mind. He does not remember his dreams well, but he knows they are not pleasant. He feels a bit like a trapped animal. He misses Tim. He thinks about calling him sometimes, especially late at night, but he always thinks better of it. It was what they had agreed on, and Jon is his boss now and Jon knows he has found others to keep himself occupied with. A couple of months go by and it is hard to focus on anything other than the things immediately around him. A small sense of calm creeps in when he is around Tim sometimes, and he feels a bit better. But Tim is gone more often than not, off tracking down follow up information for one statement or another, wooing filing clerks.

He is crueler than he means to be to Martin. It’s just that everything hurts. He feels a purpose now ,feels tied to something beyond himself, something dragging him kicking and screaming towards some indeterminable fate he does not want and cannot yet comprehend. It _scares_ him. He had felt more like himself, more connected to himself than he had in years just a few short months ago and now that is gone. Up in smoke. Like the smoke from the cigarettes he has started desperately craving again. He misses Tim. He feels a place in him that has been carved out, where Tim was meant to fit, where there is still space for their friendship. But he cannot make himself reach for the piece that will fit there. He does not mean to be so cruel to Martin. He is just having a hard time adjusting to having someone care for him when he is actively losing his hold on the last person to do so. 

Jon works late into the night, not noticing when it gets dark in his office without windows. He starts sleeping on a cot in the archives. There is no Tim and his motorbike to talk him into going home with him and climbing into his warm bed. There is only a creaky cot in the archives and the spare few hours of sleep it grants him. Some sense is knocked into him when Martin is accosted by Jane. He has to stop sleeping in the archives for one. For another, the stakes have been raised enormously. It becomes all too apparent how dangerous this job is for him, for all of them. And then all hell breaks loose and reality and nightmare merge into some liminal waking dream none of them can escape.

***

Tim is running in the tunnels he did not know existed beneath the archives. Jon is tucked into his side, bleeding, limping and doing his best to move quickly. Tim is out of breath, the carbon dioxide getting to him, making him woozy and off balance. They lost Martin a while ago, and now it is just them and the dark expanse of the tunnel stretching before them. Tim drags Jon along. They have to keep moving. There are no other options. The worms are faster here, and they cannot outrun them forever. Jon is clutching at him, hand twisted into the fabric of his shirt. He thinks they might die here. The worms are catching up just as they find the trap door. Out of options, they push it open and are forever marked by what is waiting beyond.

They have matching scars now. Matching scars to go with their matching trauma. He thinks foolishly that perhaps this will force him and Jon back together. He could not have predicted how wrong he ends up being. Jon stays away from him. It feels like rejection and he can’t keep the acid taste of it out of his mouth. He catches Jon outside his flat a few times, watching him. He is worried about him initially, pissed, but worried. He is also unbelievably hurt. He mourns the loss of Jon’s trust, a thing once willingly given to him that has now been taken away. The absence of it is like a pound of missing flesh. He needs someone—Jon, Sasha, anyone—but there is no one. Jon is dissolving in his own paranoia and Sasha is gone constantly, off with her new boyfriend, and Martin is too preoccupied with Jon to notice anyone else. Jon is gone, Sasha is gone and the world snaps back into sharp focus. There was a reason he was here. One, singular reason. It’s time he remembers that. The rage is back and it feels like coming home, or like coming home would, if the house was burning down.

***

Jon has badly hurt the people around him. He knows, he realizes, but there is very little he can do to fix it. He didn’t know about Danny, he never knew what it was that had affected Tim, that had left him in that broken state when he first started at the Institute. He feels stupid for not asking, for not finding out sooner. He should have known. Tim does not smile anymore. It seems that no one smiles anymore. Life has become a march of misery to an uncertain and terrifying end.

Jon shoves the door of his office open, needing to stretch his legs, needing to go anywhere that isn’t here. Maybe then he won’t be shaking out of his own skin. The mannequins can have it, if this is what it feels like to be wearing it, to be alive right now. He heads to the hallway and the stairs leading out of the archives. Tim is walking down, heading in the opposite direction. Tim shoves by him, the contact is brutal. His shoulder stings from where they collide. It makes Jon’s eyes ache and sting. ‘ _We_ _’re friends!_ _’_ He wants to scream it at him, take him by the shoulders, look him in the eyes and drive the point home. Or maybe he doesn’t. He’s not sure he wants to see what cold hatred might be waiting for him in those familiar eyes. Tim had been another tether. And then Jon had taken his side of it and pulled and pulled, farther and farther until it had snapped. And now he is unmoored. He has no hope of convincing Tim that they’re friends anymore. Now he just hopes he can convince him that they are on the same side. Jon goes into the Unknowing thinking that if he can convince Tim not to die, everything will be okay. They might all die regardless of anything they do, but if he can just convince Tim not to want it so badly, that might be enough.

It is not enough. The impossibility of the Unknowing grinds to halt when Jon realizes that Tim is holding the detonator. He closes his eyes, resigned to his fate. Tim is going to die. He is going to die. At least he will not have to bear the loss. They had been in research together for two years, they were together for the first of Jon’s many traumas to leave a physical mark on his body, it feels right that they should die here together, too.

He can’t even die right. There are certain things Jon has been able to accept about himself since waking up. Tim’s death is not one of them. He has listened to the tape. He had not been able to hear Tim’s last words when he was there. ‘I don’t forgive you.’ It plays over and over again in his head. And he wants to know, is it true? But he dares not ask the question, he does not want to know, he does not think he can bear the weight of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. Feel free to leave me a comment below or come yell at me on tumblr @[halfofmysoulistrees](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/halfofmysoulistrees/). What do you think, more JonTim? I also may or may not have made a playlist for this fic, I may post it to my tumblr. If you're curious, I consider myself to be gray ace, but I really wanted to get input from other aspec people, there are so many ways to experience ace ness. Thanks again to Silvercoulour and summerofspock.


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